I Speak Because I Can
by Gene Dark
Summary: The diary of Rilian Tabris, set five years before the start of Origins. Also starring Shianni, Cyrion, Adaia, Nelaros, Alistair, Ser Otto, Garn Brosca, Habren Bryland, and Marjolaine...


_AN: I wondered in-game how a girl from Denerim's Alienage, with no experience of public speaking, was able to hold the Landsmeet in the palm of her hand. This is my take on how and why, and was written for icey-cold, who is responsible for Shianni's birthday present, Habren's hissy fit, __the inclusion of Ser Otto and __"Princess Pointy Ears" __(in other words, all the best __bits__!) To see more of the odious Habren, see her wonderful Interlude XII from Trovommi Amor. Rilian is a character in Death and the Maiden, but it's not necessary to read the longer fic unless you want to…_

_This __fic __also __owes __much __to __analect__, __and __her __view __of __Alienage __life __from __the __Feasting __on __Dreams __series__: __specifically__, __The __Shambles__, __Birdcage __Walk__, __giant __rats __and __gate __trade__. __I__'__ve __enjoyed __bouncing __ideas__, __and __building __up __a __shared __worldview__. __If you haven't read her fic, you should: it's great!_

_Ril__'__s __song __is __Sandy __Denny__'__s __version __of__ "__She __Moved __Through __The __Fair__." __This __is __pretty __much __Ril__'__s __signature __tune__..._

_The __title __is __from __the __Laura __Marling __album__. __Yes__, __I __make __a __habit __of __using __songs __as __titles__, __chiefly __because I'm rubbish at picking my own!_

I dreamed of flight.

I began the dream as a dog - my little dog, Helm-Piddle, who me and Shianni adopted because he hates the guards as much as we do. In my dream I was running through a vast shadowy warren of wood and stone, sliced into ominous shapes by a forest of legs. I saw no faces, just these huge muddy lumps, stomping and kicking while the gnarled handle of a broom chased me round and round. To escape, I followed my nose. The entire warren was a gauntlet of smells: from the rich, rare scent of the middens to the brackish sourness of overflowing drains, to the indescribable odour of rotting cat. Threaded beneath all this was the low thrum of life - of ancient vitality - of the roots of the Vhenadahl burrowing deep beneath wet, refreshed earth. I headed for the scents of tree and earth - towards the wide open square and Alienage gate, the hoots and yells and catcalls right behind me. The heavy thudding came faster and faster - the shadows lengthened over me like black water - I could smell the rankness of iron and leather and old sweat. Then I reached the gate - long spears of rusted iron sunk deep within protesting wood - and remembered something that turned my legs to jelly and my blood to ice.

They would catch me in the end, because I couldn't run forever. Because this whole place was a trap. With no way out.

I was going to die.

I never knew what made me turn and face them. Yapping defiance and terror, I bunched my squat sausage legs and long body - then shot towards the guards like a streak of greased lightning. Faster and faster I ran, my feet hardly touching the ground. Big, hammy hands reached downward - I sunk my teeth deep into a finger. A curse - an enraged howl - and I dodged the long sweep of the broom. I saw the feral shadows flickering under the dark weave of branches. I ignored them, increasing my speed. I felt myself getting lighter and lighter - leaving the ground for three, four, five heartbeats. I knew that if only I could double my speed I would leave the ground altogether. If I ran faster - almost unimaginably faster - I could fly. Each breath was drawn through fire, but I ignored the burn. Details like that lost their importance; I left them behind.

I felt my musculature and skeleton fluidly rearranging themselves. There was no pain - only a burst of indescribable joy - as if the future rushed to meet me. I spread my wings, laughing - caught a gust like a ship sailing on air - soared above the roil of waving arms and furious shouts. I swooped, banked and turned - high above the tangle of roofs and walls, angles and sharp corners - the domino-like patchwork of houses spread before me like a map of home. Colourless rain shimmered above like a glittering, ever-changing mesh. Smoke-coloured clouds curled in lazy ringlets. I flew higher and higher - until the entire Alienage wall looked no more than a sickle blade and I saw the city as a whole - the Elf and human sides locked together in a complex jigsaw. I landed atop the black monolith of Fort Drakon - right up on the roof - and stared down at the myriad shem houses. Because I had never seen them, I painted a picture of sturdy wooden buildings like our own: only larger, grander, in perfect repair.

The weight of my own breaths and the slough of fear fell away like cast-off rags. I was vast as an ocean and weightless as a column of light. I tingled all over with a wild, strange, sweet sense of exultation - my soul washed clean in that great aerial bath. I stood on the precipice and did not hesitate to leap…

"Rilian."

…high above the fog and clouds…

"Wake up, cousin - why are you still in bed…"

"Mmmph." I curled up like a boiled shrimp and pulled the blankets over my head.

A tug - a pull - and I squealed at the sudden rush of cold air.

I burrowed deeper into the sheets and wrapped my arms over my head.

"Come on - don't make me use cold water again. You _do_ remember what today is, don't you?"

"My wedding?" I asked hopefully. Most of my dreams were of the man I was to marry: Nelaros, the Highever blacksmith's son. I've never met him, but he sent me a ring he made himself, of steel so pure it seems to shine with cold blue radiance. Curling all around is etched a filigree tracing of winged vines. When I saw it I knew we were the same: that I set notes to music and he creates songs of fire and steel. Shianni says an Elven blacksmith will sweat like a shem and have terrible manners - but I know she's only kidding. A blacksmith is an unusual trade for an Elf - it wouldn't be permitted in Denerim. Mother and Father argued for days over the marriage: Father said it wasn't fair to keep me here when we'd have a better life in Highever. Mother said she'd miss me too much. I'm glad. Denerim is my home. I don't want to leave my parents and Shianni and Soris. Nor the rest of the folk. I don't always _like_ them - but they are interesting. There's Elva, who never has a good word to say about anyone. She hates us younger girls because we _are_ young. There's Missa, who wears _outrageous _clothes. They're shem dresses - but when the other girls spit on her she holds her head up and says she's making money like we wouldn't believe. I think that is very brave. I wish I could be so fearless - but I _do_ care what people think. There's Alarith, who runs his own shop - here, in the Alienage. He's very handsome, but his eyes hold secrets. _Don't ever ask_, Father told me, when I noticed the scars on his wrists…

"No, you idiot - but if you want the money for your dowry you'd better not be late for your first day at work."

Eeek! I almost forgot! I shot out of bed, and yelped as my feet hit the wet floor - it was raining in again. A small puddle had formed, with droplets making a continuous spatter of light-rings in the candle-light. I turned the corner of the L-shaped wooden house, past the little alcove of Soris' room, into the main living space where Mother and Father slept on a rolled-up mattress they put away during the day. I stopped - gasped - at the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen, my mouth hanging open. The kitchen table had been moved to one side, and in pride of place stood an enormous washtub, full to the brim with hot, steaming water. I gaped: we normally drew a bucket each from the pump at the Alienage outskirts and washed down in front of the basin (because the stream was fouled by the sewage duct from Arl Urien's estate). It must've taken Shianni hours to carry this much - and countless pans heated at the stove.

"Wowee - Shianni - you didn't…"

Shianni made little shoeing gestures with red-knuckled hands, and scoffed.

"I knew you'd lie in so long you wouldn't have time to go to the pump - and I won't have it said the Tabris' are dirty. Get in before it gets cold."

I dived in with an enormous splash, squealing with delight. I stretched my toes all out, as far as they would go, and wriggled about. Shianni handed me a bar of lye soap, and I tried my best to work it into a lather. The stuff doesn't lather easily, but I managed to cover my body and hair - and dunked right under, my hair floating on top like strands of red seaweed. The steaming water and the bitter, herby taste went up my nose and throat - I surfaced, coughed, spluttered, and continued washing to the strains of an old Alienage ballad:

"_Oh__, __my __young __love __said __to __me__: __my__-__yi__-__yee __Motherrrr __won__'__t __mind__. __And __my __Fatherrrrr_ _won__'__t __slight __you__, __for __your __lack __of __kind__…_"

Shianni ignored my efforts. She bustled about, laying out the uniform I was to wear: a puce-coloured smock of a weave so coarse it looked like sackcloth, and round-toed serviceable shoes. I'd had high hopes that a lady's maid would get to wear something beautiful, and looked longingly at the square of red silk and furl of gold thread hidden away in one corner. The cloth is like a shimmer of fire, and feels like water running through my fingers. The colours are those of royalty - the silk and thread were a gift to mother from a wealthy shem patron. As Mother's sewing is almost as bad as mine, she's been on at Shianni for months to make them into a shawl or a skirt - but Shianni always pretends not to hear. I wish I could accompany Mother on her private performances - but when I said so Father's lips went very straight and thin, and Shianni said pointedly that she hoped I'd follow a more respectable profession. Why? What makes washing laundry more respectable than singing and dancing?

Shianni bustled over with the twenty long pins that fix my hair into two discs at the back of my head. I wriggled away from her. "Not today. If I have to wear that horrid thing I at least want my hair to fly free. I'm sure it says in the Vir Tanadal that "long hair is an Elven woman's glory…"

Shianni folded her arms across her chest. They're thin, wiry, and stained to the elbows with bleach. Her hands are very long and elegant; her palms are dry and hard as a soldier's. "Ah, of course - silly me. That's just what every shem mistress wants: an Elven maid with better hair than she."

I blinked. That thought had never occurred to me. "I'm sure that isn't true," I argued. "I always like to look at beautiful things and people."

"Handsome is as handsome does."

I scrunched up my nose. "That miiiight be true," I said dubiously, "But I can't - quite - believe it. I always find it easier to be good when I feel beautiful."

Shianni sniffed. Shianni has a repertoire that varies from the barely-audible "I-disapprove" to a full-on snort of derision. I flicked water at her - then squealed as she advanced with folded arms and fire in her eyes.

My attempts to surrender earned me a swift dunking.

Later, clothed, clean and dry, I carefully wrapped a shawl around my wet hair. I felt snug, immaculately clean, and ready to take on the world. Shianni made quick shooing gestures like a bird, and I hurried from the house to where Father and Soris waited at the Gate. My second cousin Iona, who works for Lady Landra, was there too - little Amethyne was tugging at her skirts. And Eadric and Tomas, who work as stablehands. We formed a little gaggle as we set out. One bored guard sat idly picking his teeth with a small knife - he sneered as we approached, but worked the mechanism at the side of the gate. It squealed upward, protesting like an old man's knees, and the streets beyond opened up like a glittering oyster. Crystalline rivulets glided the mirror-wet stone. The streets of The Shambles wound before us like grey snakes - Father murmured that this was where the poorest shems traded. The smells and sounds of open-air butchery hit me in a smothering red wave. I pulled my shawl tighter around my head.

"Hey, now, pretty one - give us a smile," called one of the guards. There was more, that I carefully did not hear. Father walked beside me, thin back stiff with outrage - that he was letting another man speak this way to his daughter. I stopped - and he prodded me sharply between the shoulderblades. Our little group kept moving.

Just then, I caught sight of the squat, low armoury building - and the lean brown shape of Helm-Piddle wriggling through, a gleam of triumph in his beady black eyes and jauntily-wagging tail. The guards saw him too.

"Curse that mutt!" one shouted, and took after Helm-Piddle with the butt of a spear - but Helm-Piddle was too fast for him. I couldn't keep an ear-licking smile from my face. I was revenged.

I still felt angry and sore as we left the market behind, but when I looked down, and saw the clouds reflected in the mirror-smooth puddles beneath my feet, all my anger went away. No one can be angry who walks on clouds.

The raindrops fell in tiny ringlets of light - each impression unique, each too brief to distinguish. The buildings became larger and grander. One had a red-and-green pennant that fluttered like bright sails. I thought of a ship, braced against the storm, with a fearless crew and a golden king at the helm.

The Bryland estate was an enormous monument to grandeur and power, its stark greyness jutting into the throbbing sky. Atop the battlement, yellow and black pennants fluttered as though a swarm of wasps had landed. On the cobbled stone courtyard, a carriage was drawing up, pulled by fierce-looking horses that snorted and stamped and blew. I darted a glance at Tomas and Eadric, grateful that my duties didn't include taking care of the beasts. The carriage itself was a wonderful thing of fleet curves and shimmering curtains, gliding like a man-made swan upon the stone. Father nudged me forward and dropped into a low bow as the footman opened the door and the lady and her daughter got out. I wondered if I would ever get the chance to ride in such a thing. Following Father's cue, I snaked one foot behind the other and dropped into a curtsey, my shoes squeaking and slithering upon the wet stone. An awful thought struck me - what if I fell flat on my face?

"Is this the girl?" the shem mistress asked.

"This is my daughter, Rilian, your ladyship." I risked a smile - and Father prodded me sharply in the back.

The shem Lady pursed her mouth tighter than a cat's arse in fly-time. Her daughter looked a couple of years younger than me, though it was hard to tell with shems, and had very black hair and dark eyes that glittered like a beetle's carapace.

"_You_ may take my luggage upstairs," she pointed with a long painted fingernail at an enormous crate stuffed atop the back of the seat. I gulped, and tried to manoeuvre myself into the carriage. There was a loud rip, as my dress snagged on the wood, and a shrill giggle behind me. I gritted my teeth, and tried to work the crate toward the door. I realised for the first time that my lute-playing, knife-wielding hands had never done a proper day's work in their life. Shianni had been a year younger than me when she started her apprenticeship, and the family was supported by her wages, and Father's. Mother's gifts were like sporadic showers of rare jewels. They made Andraste's Day and Yule very special. Today I would begin earning my own wage, and my wedding day would come that much more quickly.

I grunted - managed to heave the crate from the carriage, snagging my fingernail painfully, my back bent double under the weight. I was aware of the pitying glances of the other's servants, sizing me up and finding me lacking. By the time I'd lugged the crate up to the young mistress' room on the third floor, I was sweating like a shem. The young mistress - Father had told me her name was Lady Habren - was already sitting on the bed when I arrived, half-disappeared in a mass of filly pink ribbons. The entire chamber was pink - and at once I felt utterly out of place. Pink and red-heads don't mix. I mentally coloured the room in shades of soft green - like the leaves of the Vhenadahl in spring, each one a tiny, iridescent jewel.

The tiny, rose-bud mouth pursed like her mother's had done. "What took you so long?"

"It...weighs a ton...the stairs...three floors..."

"Well, you can't leave it here," she snapped, pointing a delicate hand to where I'd dumped the crate on the gloriously woven rug.

"Where shall I leave it, my lady?"

A wicked gleam came into the coal-black eyes. "Up there," she pointed - towards the top of an immense cupboard.

_You've got to be kidding me..._

I heaved and grunted and strained - the rip widened dangerously - one horrible, teetering second...and then the entire contents of the crate cascaded over me like a landslide.

Habren's shrill giggle was like the screeching of chalk.

A word that would have shocked father exploded past my lips. The frilly pink room turned blue. I clapped a hand to my mouth, appalled, and spun round guiltily. The girl was looking at me in a kind of horrified delight.

"Mother always told me the Elves speak profanity as a native tongue. I believe it now. You will pick up my things - and then you can go and wash your filthy mouth out with soap."

Neither of these tasks seemed that much of a punishment. Father has made me wash my mouth out with soap several times - the last for repeating a phrase of Old Timon's just to hear how it sounded. Old Timon's way of speaking has a tang to it. And Habren's belongings were fascinating: I carefully picked up an enormous glass paperweight. It was heavy as a stone in my hands - but when I held it up to the candlelight I gasped. Someone - I had no idea how - had blown bubbles into the glass. They hung suspended like frozen spheres of light in translucent amber. Above them, also embedded, was an exotic pink bloom. I remembered my old dream: that the marbles my mother gave me were really jewelled stars, somehow huge and tiny at the same time. I stared into the glass, saw tiny versions of myself reflected, as in the compound eyes of a dragonfly. Each bubble might be an Alienage: self-contained, housing a whole community. The flower - watching over all - could be the Golden City, where Mother Boann tells us we go when we die. I held the glass upward to the light and made my arms sway like the Vhenadahl's branches, to make its reflections cascade like a glittering waterfall. The flower really looked more like Arlathan - the lost Elven homeland the Hahren talks about, where we used to be immortal. An odd thought struck me: _what __if __it __isn__'__t __lost __at __all__..._ I tried to picture the ancient forest. I had only ever seen the lonely grandeur of the Vhenadahl, but managed a shadowy, abstract impression of green darkness. The mournfully sweet notes of birds trilled like flutes singing their private sorrows to the trees.

A shrill note broke into the dance of music and light: a jarring F-sharp.

"I count all my belongings, you know."

"Mistress Habren," I retorted with as much dignity as I could muster, "I am not going to steal your paperweight. I don't have to possess something to enjoy it. Working for you, I'll be able to see it every day, for years and years." _It__'__s __almost __worth __years __and __years __of __your __company__..._

Habren blinked slowly, a look of surprise scrunching the corners of her eyes: the sort of surprise I would have felt if my dinner had suddenly raised its head on the plate and protested being eaten. She seemed to be trying to work out whether to punish me or not.

Fortunately for me, another servant chose that moment to knock upon the door. Habren's pursed mouth made a little moue of annoyance.

The servant - one of ours, I could tell from his accent - had a slight tremor in his voice.

"Lady Lorna bids you join her for the Andraste's Day service."

I couldn't believe I'd forgotten! Each Andraste's Day the clerics - usually Mother Boann - and Templar guards come to the Alienage to distribute alms. Shianni won't be seen dead there. She says she doesn't want charity - just to be able to charge the same as the shems for doing the same work. Father won't go either. He's a man who supports his family, his sister's son, his brother's daughter, and several of our neighbours. That's nearly as much as the Hahren. The only reason Father didn't want to be Hahren is that the Tabris' have been in service all the way back. That's respectable - but the Hahren has to be the community's spokesman to the shems. That's hard to do as an employee. But Father is still an important man. Out of deference to him I don't take the money either - though it seems to me no different to being given a gift. But I go for the sights and gossip and sweetcakes - we sit beneath the Vhenadahl and I share them out and talk - and bring some home to Shianni and Father, who unbend enough to eat them. I had never been inside a Chantry, and was thrilled to accompany Habren.

My first hope was dashed almost immediately. I didn't get the chance to ride in the graceful carriage. The Chantry was a mere hundred yards ahead of the Bryland estate. I walked behind Habren and carried the train of the exquisitely soft grey cloak she wrapped about the frilly pink dress. She looked very pretty and piquant. That's something I've discovered about myself: I like my mistress to look well even though I don't like _her__._ There is not any use denying it: there are times I am very proud of Habren. I did my best to match her mincing steps - which was difficult as Shianni tells me I walk like a daddy-long-legs: all knees and elbows and feet. We walked across a wide cobbled street where the rain pattered down in glittering silver blisters. Our faces and arms and skirts were warped by bubbles of rain into contorted shapes, like reflections in a spoon. Each puddle might have been a portal into a strange looking-glass world. Atop the liquid silk of the water, the first of the falling leaves floated like a delicate red ship. The clouds were like heavy, wet grey wool. Narrow smears of sunlight broke through, gilding the rain with an oily sheen like lemon juice. For one magical moment, the pale yellow disc broke through the metallic shields, and a rainbow shimmered into existence, curving from one tall turret to the next. Its underside flashed an incredibly vivid green, shading into violet. Its top was a flaming arc of red-gold splendour. Habren gave a little squeal of delight - for the first time, I found myself liking her.

That didn't last long. I was so engrossed in looking upward my foot came down into an enormous puddle. An explosion of muddy droplets sprayed upwards - right over Habren's train and frilly pink stockings.

That _was_ a happening. An army of monsters attacking Denerim would not have made such a commotion. Habren's voice shrilled like a horde of yowling cats. A symphony of stormclouds swelled and roiled across her face - the beetle-black eyes filled with tears.

"You _stupid_ knife-ear! These stockings are worth more than you'll make in ten years! Mother! _Motherrrr__._"

I didn't expect anything to be able to hold off this storm - but Lady Lorna achieved the impossible.

"There there, dear. Do you want Vaughan Kendall to see you with a swollen face and eyes like peeled shrimps?"

The words wrought a minor miracle. The flow dried like our stream in hot summer - tiny beads glittered like jewels upon sooty lashes, but did not spill over. She shot me a final glare - like a nest of venomous snakes - yanked the train out of my hands and turned her back on me. I scrambled along behind, my feet slithering in their shoes like pigs in slop.

The street turned sharply left and opened into the front of the Chantry overlooking a great courtyard. Snail-trails of water trickled down the flat grey stone. A seething throng of shems swarmed outside - a kaleidoscope of nobles, traders, sutlers and servants, ringed by silver-armoured Templars. I stared about in confusion, searching for any Elves among the crowd - any familiar faces. I nearly squealed in delight when I saw Father's second-cousin Nigella, following a noblewoman with an enormous beehive of auburn hair, a mouth like a bee-sting, and an expression that made Habren's look angelic. I waved frantically behind Habren's back, grinning from ear to ear.

Nigella saw me - but did not stop. She cut her eyes in my direction - a quick, nervous acknowledgement - and hurried along after her mistress. She didn't look like herself at all. Her face held an odd frozen stillness, like a mask or a shield. It worried me. Nigella has served the Guerrins for three years. What will my face look like after three more years of Habren?

The Chantry itself was an enormous brooding monument. I had a confused sense of the grandeur of tradition; the weight of history. It was beautiful - but it also made me feel the heaviness of sky before storm. There was a darkness there - as though some alien, martial, immovable belief had decided my fate long before I was born, and I walked in its shadow. Yet when I looked up at the circle of stained glass the feeling went away. A translucent disc of gold formed the Sunshield, surrounded by red-gold shards cut into by strips of lead...an apparent brother to the yellow orb in the sky and the rainbow's light. It bathed the sea of faces in a frozen whirlwind of unearthly hues, as though petals of living crystal had been strewn over them.

Wide stone steps led up to a great, wooden double door. Its heavy brass handles were embossed with the forms of saints and swords, heroes and monsters. Smoky tendrils writhed from two braziers on either side, creating oily shadows. These flickered and twisted and danced upon the bronze, bringing the figures to life. A long column of Templars ascended the steps and opened the doors. At once, the somber silence within seemed to spread outward and envelop the noise and clatter and chaos, drawing all inside it. As I followed the throng inside, closely after Habren, my eyes were drawn upward in that great echoing space – towards impossibly-angled wooden beams that built, climbed, ascended to the roof. Fluttering birds nested in the rafters. This, I thought, staring upward at the shadowy grandeur, is the human version of our Vhenadahl.

Habren's hand prodded my back sharply, brought me back to the world. I stumbled awkwardly, picking my way across empty pews regular as dominoes, my eyes flitting about to take in everything at once. Attars of flowers were dotted next to great stone carvings – glossy-petaled chrysanthemums opened their great bland faces and spread their scent. Everywhere were candles. Some glowered and smouldered like sulky little demons – some burned steady and upright like Andraste's pyre – and some danced sinuously, reminding me of the times Mother dances in the forbidden twilight with nothing but gauzy veils and silver daggers – teaching me to juggle with them – seeming almost to become a conduit between stars and steel. The dancing light created odd little shadows and alluring corners that seemed to beckon me onward, towards hidden alcoves – no matter how many times I looked, there was always something new to discover. There were jars of incense, smelling of roses and spices and something pungent that went up my nose and the back of my throat. The smoke blurred the outlines of stone and wood to a series of softer, dreamlike impressions, blending with the candlelight to make the entire Chantry glow like a softy-muted pearl.

The Templars made their way to the rows of pews at the front, perfectly in unison, like the majestic wheel of constellations; a silver-armoured host moving across an earth and sky of darkness. Finally came the Revered Mother herself, to give the address. It wasn't Mother Boann – she must be at the Alienage. An old stout woman with steel grey hair that was held – no, subdued was the better word – in a raisin-like bun atop her head. She had a strange way of walking – seemingly without any side-to-side movement of her hips – so that she seemed to glide between the pews like a statue of Andraste moving all on its own. She had a round, wrinkled face like a prune – but a very friendly prune. I held my breath, waiting for the address, and wriggled a little on my seat.

Habren elbowed me sharply in the ribs.

"Ow!"

"You have taken the corner seat in the pew – my favourite spot. You sat there just to keep me out of it! _Why_ did you do it?"

"If it was to keep you out of it, isn't that _why_," I muttered under my breath. I got awkwardly to my feet – feeling gawky and tall and out of place. I quickly knelt by Habren's side, next to the pew, so I wouldn't tower over the heads of all the rest. Habren slid into my place with a satisfied sheen of silk, looking like the cat who has got the cream. I shut her out of my mind, glad when the Revered Mother opened with the Canticle of Transfigurations, verse 10. After three years at Mother Boann's school, I can recite the Chant backwards in my sleep, and that's always been one of my favourite verses. Shianni thinks both Chant and school are a waste of time and have made me even more of an airhead than I was already; all yeast, no flour, as Father says. But learning to read means I can write too – after a fashion, with two thirds of the words I want guessed at or made up. I've been writing to Nelaros since he made me the ring – I write every week on paper smuggled from the school, and send them with Alarith on his trading trips. Nelaros can't read the letters, of course – but he sent a message back saying he'll keep them all, and I can read them to him when we're married. So I tell him about the folk he's marrying into, and all our doings and beings: who likes, who spurns, who loves secretly – who can be trusted, and who will be nice to your face and gossip behind your back.

It didn't take me long to realize there was something a little – strange – about this version of the Chant. I listened incredulously – my mouth twitched – I hastily tried to imagine the saddest, most solemn things...all to no avail. I cut my eyes across the crowd, to see what everyone thought of the changes – but most of the shem ladies just looked bored, fanning their faces with pale hands like languid sleepy flowers. The Templars were all looking stony-faced...all except two in the front row. One was very tall and blond, and reminded me of a stained-glass window. He had a kind of half-smile on his face, and sometimes kept his eyes closed for longer than a moment. It was the same expression Father wears when we entertain Old Timon. That's something Father and Mother argue over...and it always puzzles me that Mother and I are so close, and such kindred spirits, and yet I disagree with her completely. She thinks sharing food and drink and lodging with a man like Old Timon is a waste of time – but he's a docker who was crippled trying to feed his family; that could have been Father. We're tied by blood and history and obligation; how could we turn our backs? Sometimes I like it when Mother plays the grand lady – her veiled eyes fixed on some garden of dreams the rest of the community cannot enter – but I want my heartland to have an open door. Besides, Old Timon's stories are _fascinating__._ I could never be a dockworker – but I like the thought of a place where Elves and shems and even dwarves work together, for the same wage. A docker can earn as much as Mother makes – and why is it that the two best-paid jobs an Elf can have are the most despised? Old Timon says his dwarven supervisor – a man named Brosca – has his fingers in a lot of pies. I joked that so did Father – being Head Chef – and Old Timon nodded and cut his eyes at Father in a way I didn't quite understand. Father just shrugged – and the two of them finished their imported whiskey in companionable silence.

The Templar standing next to the blond knight looked no more than a recruit. His cropped sandy hair looked like the picture of a wheat field in one of Mother Boann's books. He cut his eyes to the Revered Mother – rolled them – then shot me a wink. I blinked. A broad grin spread over his face – lopsided and mischievous. I smiled too – not as a deliberate politeness but in a spontaneous flowering of comradeship. Hearing a shopping list work its way into the Chant was a new experience – Shianni would have called it an improvement: food, not hot air...

"_The Veal holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her bacon and her shield, her foundation and her..."_

One of the other clerics bent close to whisper in the Revered Mother's ear. Mother has taught me to lip-read – I caught the words: "There is no "Veal" in the Chant!"

"Will you stop correcting me! It _is_ almost mealtime, isn't it?"

I quickly clapped my hand over my mouth. One strangled snort broke through. Habren jabbed me in the ribs with a long pointed nail.

But when the other clerics began to sing the chorus I forgot all about Habren. If written words are like horses – able to travel long distances at great speeds – then musical notes are like birds, able to reach the sky on blazing wings, falling like rain upon Elf and human, King and commoner. The silver shower of notes cascaded upward – a torrent of bright beauty almost too fast to catch, and it seemed to me that the notes of music and motes of light were one and the same, borne of a single chord. Elven immortality is only a legend – but at times like these it seems I can hear a little faint, far-off echo of it, like the strains of a distant hunting horn woven through a rain-washed, clamourous marketplace. It is sharp and beautiful, like a sword going through me, and makes me feel a joy that is like tears and a despair of translating its beauty into any chords I know.

"_...__A __city __with __towers __of __gold__,_

_streets __with __music __for __cobblestones__,_

_And __banners __which __flew __without __wind__..."_

On impulse - hearing that description of the Golden City, imagining myself there – I flung back my shawl and shook out my hair in a red cascade. I wanted to be beautiful in the Maker's eyes. I heard a hiss like boiling water – could almost feel my skin scaling – but I shut Habren out. She didn't exist – not in _this_ universe, anyway.

But Habren was still very much with me. As the last of the notes faded – leaving only faint, mournful echos like dying light – she rounded on me, face flat and white and eyes glittering like black burned coals.

"How dare you embarrass me like this! Your hair is as ginger as a tom cat and greasy as a sausage pan! Go home – and don't come back without a braid or a veil. If I see it like this again, I'll cut it off."

I had danced with stars – and now was dashed to earth. Habren's words seemed to linger in my ears – a hot and ugly reminder. My cheeks were scarlet with mortification. The two worst things to criticize about an Elven woman are her cleanliness and her hair – and Habren, like an unerring marksman, had managed to hit both at the same time. I entertained a fantasy concerning her own glossy black locks and the bleach Shianni uses on dirty shem underwear. I contented myself with curtseying _very __coldly_ and tossing my hair as I swept past her, my head held high and my back stiff with outrage.

By the time I reached the cold grey square, defiance shivered down into bewilderment. I realized I had absolutely no idea of the way home. When I followed father this morning I'd been so caught up in the newness and wonder of everything – the tall stone buildings and wide streets and shimmering banners – that's I'd paid no attention to where I was going. I was lost! I looked around for familiar faces – but all the Elves were hard at work at their day's duties. I was alone, and felt cold and lonely and out on a limb. I felt eyes on me and turned – and blinked in surprise to see the two Templars I'd seen earlier watching me. The older one smiled at me and said:

"If you're heading to the Alienage then we're going the same way."

I hesitated, torn between the urge to back away and the urge to follow someone who knew where they were going. Normally, armed humans send any sane Elf backing away...but these didn't look much like Arl Urien's guards. Their armour might have come from a stained glass window. I took a cautious step closer. The man had deep winter-blue eyes. They were stern, shaded, marked by layers of privacy and restraint – but I could see right inside them to the core of faith that bubbled up fountain-like within, shy and austerely bright.

I smiled a little nervously and shuffled forward – acutely conscious of my puce-coloured smock, horrible shoes, and the state of my hair. I _knew_ it wasn't greasy – but maybe it really did look ginger in certain lights. I vowed to check my reflection in sunlight as soon as I got home. I dropped into a curtsey and said,

"If you could – just take me as far as Birdcage Walk on The Shambles...I know my way from there, sers."

The younger, hazel-eyed Templar grinned at me. "Oh – it's no trouble. We're going into the Alienage to join old Mother Boann."

"Mother Boann," the older knight reprimanded him sternly, "I doubt she would appreciate the 'old'."

"Oh," I said, thinking quickly, thoughts of Elva and Shianni running through my mind as rapidly as our little babbling stream, "That isn't...necessary." I wasn't quite sure how to explain that it wasn't decent to walk into the Alienage beside two strange men – especially if they were shems. I mean, everyone knows shems don't understand manners - whenever a child is rude or lazy or dirty we compare him to a shem – but it would be unkind to let them feel their ignorance. "You see – there would be talk," I explained as delicately as I could.

"Ah." The older shem nodded in total comprehension, his expression dead-pan. "And of course such talk is more to be feared than the dangers of the road."

"Exactly," I beamed – surprised to see a shem catch on so quickly.

"Very well – The Shambles it is."

Just then the shem woman with the beehive hair came out of the Chantry – walking beside a man whose bushy grey beard entered the courtyard as an advance guard for the rest of him. Nigella hurried along behind carrying the lady's possessions. The young Templar looked suddenly as eager as a half-starved puppy - he strained towards them as though on a leash, his entire being seemed a mass of conflicting impulses: half-cringing from a beating, half-wagging his tail. But the lord and lady walked by quickly, without glancing in our direction. The Templar squire slumped, looking so dejected I tried to think of something comforting to say.

"They didn't even wave," he muttered to the older knight.

The older Templar seemed to be trying to think of something reassuring. "Alistair – when we become Templars we leave our families behind. The Order are your mother and father, your brothers and sisters now..."

I thought this a terrible excuse. I tried to imagine joining an Order that prohibited having a family and couldn't think of anything more horrible. Of course it was never going to happen – there aren't any military orders that take Elves – but if it did I knew Father and Shianni would move mountains to see me. I had the strangest feeling that the older knight really thought exactly the same – and was trying hard to spare Alistair's feelings. It seemed to cheer him up slightly.

"The Lady seems very – strict," I tried tentatively. Alistair looked at me and grinned. I noticed he had freckles atop the bridge of his nose just as I did.

"You have no idea!" he said with feeling, "The Black City itself doesn't hold anything as horrible as Lady Isolde's high notes!"

The older Templar's mouth tried to be stern but did not quite succeed. "You are quite shameless, Alistair," he admonished – but it was ruined by the glint of humour in the storm-coloured eyes.

I giggled – and quickly clapped a hand over my mouth.

We headed down the main market district – an enormous square of open stalls with banners that shimmered and rippled in the breeze. The rain had stopped – the sky glowed like a water-bright, translucent pearl, as though the world had been made new. The stalls were a treasure-trove of fascinating objects, great and small: Orlesian silks, tiny jeweled egg-cups, a tea-set...my eyes lit upon them, and I had a sudden sympathy for the magpies that sometimes roosted in the Vhenadahl. Stall-owners glared as I passed, and the eyes of burly shem guards raked me up and down. I blushed with indignation – I have never stolen in my life: Shianni would have my hide. I dreamed of having coin to spend here – though I knew they wouldn't serve me if I did. The lower market will take anyone's coin, but not here.

Streets wound away from the square like the runnels of a glittering clamshell – wide, and so clean compared with those I was used to they seemed to shine as if wearing new skin. We passed an enormous ale-house with a wooden sign, painted with a fat, rosy animal carrying an apple in its mouth. I tried to place it - it wasn't one we usually saw on our table. Then I smacked my lips at the memory of Father bringing home a suckling pig. It hadn't occurred to me to wonder how he came by it – or whether the Arl's family had even missed it. A burst of loud laughter swelled from inside – and rich, greasy tendrils of ale, cabbage and fat followed us. We followed a narrower side-street that wound away like a snake: Denerim really did seem to be made of concentric circles, spiraling away from the heart of the market square. The street tapered into a narrow grey shopfront, and I caught my breath at the delicate golden writing that curled above the door. Wonders of Thedas...the words leapt into my mind without effort; they were all part of the Chant. I stood in front of the door for so long that the younger Templar began to fidget and the older gave a polite cough.

"Oh – I'm sorry!" I said guiltily, "I didn't mean to make you wait...or my people wait, for the alms." This was a rather awkward subject – I was trying to avoid saying that _I _wouldn't be taking the alms; it sounded rather - ungrateful.

The Templar looked at me with lucent blue eyes that seemed to understand that. "Weellll," he said slowly, "I suppose it couldn't hurt to shop here. The proprietor is a...member of the Circle; one could say our custom will support the Chantry."

I gulped – I couldn't admit now that I had no money. And I was far too eager for the sights to back out...my heart beat faster as the Templar pushed open the door, and it creaked inward slowly to a place of glimmering dark corners and fascinating clutter. My brain spun as dizzily as a drunken bee and my eyes flitted like moths from one gem-like mote of wonder to the next. There was a blue agate lamp that cast an unearthly glow: water made into a shaft of light. It illuminated the coral-like surface as though we swam miles under Denerim harbour, with the shadows of white-winged ships sailing over us. Three walls were covered in row upon row of books – more paper than I had imagined could exist. I squinted and peered at the titles – some I could decipher, some not.

The fourth wall bore what I took to be paintings: long rectangles of green upon blue, with dark-coloured squares and lighter coloured squiggles and thin curling writing about the edges. I looked closer – tried to trace the unfamiliar writing – then all at once a name I recognized, in the top right-hand corner, made the images coalesce and the meaning leap out at me, making sense at last. I trembled in an odd mixture of awe and disquiet – I had never guessed that the city of Denerim was so small – or the rest of the world so large. I thought of my dream, about the spheres that were huge and tiny at the same time: two contradictory views stole over me, bringing a strange stillness of time and blankness of mind. The Alienage was huge to me, and the rest of the world small – because I saw them, and knew them, that way.

I stared at the maps for a long time, comparing different views of the world. Some stopped at a place named Gherlen's Pass – others carried on, and on those Denerim seemed even tinier. All the castles and cities and roads bore the names of lords – a shem's world, I thought, not much interested. But the final map had something different. No shem names – no castles or trade routes – just beautiful pictures of flowers with explanations of what they were and where they grew. I could have stood in front of it for hours. Green has always been my favourite colour – we don't see a lot of it in the Alienage, but Father keeps potted plants on our windowsill – brave splashes of colour – and waters them daily. Elves, like weeds, can survive anywhere - it makes my heart lift to see tiny fronds of green peeking through the Alienage wall. I suddenly wondered if the shems – with their castles and Chantries and straight roads – felt sympathy for the stone, rather than the growth that split it. I studied the two Templars intently, but was too shy to ask.

I gasped as the older Templar turned to the proprietor and asked how much it was. 15 sovereigns! The man was wearing a strange costume – it looked like a dress, with many pockets and vials on a wide leather belt. His voice was strange too: calm, soothing – tranquil. I couldn't believe it when the Templar took the map carefully from the wall – rolled it up – and bought it for me! My hands trembled as he gave me the crisply curled parchment – I took it like an infinitely delicate living thing – unable to quite believe I had the right. Habren and her suspicions and her words about my hair meant nothing at all, now that my day contained this. I looked up at him and tried to thank him with my expression, because my throat was too tight to speak. He seemed to understand. I felt as though I were walking on air as we left the shop, clutching my precious burden. I will treasure it always: I have it to this day.

The streets became narrower and smaller – the pervading smell of old meat and boiled linen told me we were heading for the poorer end of the market. An array of tiny stalls peeked out from sullen rooftops, like unfriendly eyes squinting at us. Butcher's shops, laundries and - when we rounded a corner – row upon row of birdcages. Chickens and geese squawked at me, fluttering captive wings...raised on cobblestones and destined for the larders of men like Arl Bryland. I was just going to say that I knew my way from Birdcage Walk when Alistair piped up:

"Will we get to sample the sweetcakes, Ser Otto?"

"Does the Order not feed you well enough then, Alistair?"

"Weellll – but no cake, or cheese. And Minna Dell can't serve decent portions to save her life..." Alistair stopped speaking long enough to aim a kick at a rather large and stubborn rat that darted out from an open sewer. The smell was enough to offend even my Alienage-trained nose – Ser Otto looked rather green around the mouth. Alistair did not seem at all put out, and his lack of shock at the size of the rat told me something about the way the Guerrins had raised him.

I found myself grinning. "Oh – sweetcakes are well enough – but what I'm really hoping for is...pumpkins!"

"Pumpkins?"

"Why yes...we're coming up to the last week of the month of falling leaves: it'll be Fade's Eve soon. We hollow out the pumpkins and make..." I began brightly – and could have bitten off my tongue. The last thing you want to do is explain to a Templar that we at the Alienage carve the faces of demons into the innocuous fruit, with ferocious eyes and fanged mouths, and light the soft insides with ghostly candles. We paint warding signs over our houses, and someone – usually Alarith – will dress up as Death and lead a procession of celebrants down streets that run with ale, til we finish dancing around the Vhenadahl – dances based on ancient customs lost to time.

"...pumpkin soup," I finished, "and Father makes a wicked pumpkin pie!"

"I see," said Ser Otto with such a straight face that I couldn't tell whether he believed me or not, "I will see what I can do."

I completed my tale with samples of all the other delicious things Father could make with the simplest of ingredients – Alistair's face was getting hungrier and hunger as I talked – and became so engrossed I completely forgot I was supposed to separate from my escort before I was seen. We came right up to the wall...and the gaggle of women doing gate trade. Girls too young to work a proper trade, and married women whose husbands won't let them, will sell flowers and shawls and scarves for a bit of extra coin. Elva's shocked, delighted face swam before my eyes – her mouth formed a spiteful "o" - and she spun round to whisper to her neighbour. Worse – luck and fate conspired to make this the day of all days that Shianni came to the gate to pick up some extra laundry from a shem woman named Goldanna. As soon as she saw me, her entire body underwent a transformation. She had been relaxed - leaning against the wall, talking to Nessa – but at once her amber eyes narrowed like a tigress defending her young and she leaned toward the Templars, her body grown thin and drawn and taut as a blade. She raked them over with a hard, feral stare...adding up a narrative entirely different from the one that had happened. Somber shadows danced across a face pared down and hardened by graft and uncompromising pride.

Seeing her head towards them, I dropped into a quick curtsey. "Thank you for walking with me, sers," I said breathlessly, whirled, and darted towards my cousin, clutching my precious burden.

Shianni's eyes swept me up and down – from my skirt to my neck – then bored into my face.

"Shianni – it's okay...I got into an argument with Habren – over my hair – you were right about the braids! She sent me home to put it up only I didn't know the way, and the Templars said they were going the same way to join Mother Boann – it's Alms Day, you know – and they...offered to walk with me. And I said yes." I rambled on and finished on a plaintive note – knowing the explanation would not be enough.

Shianni's fear for me turned to outrage. "You _spawn_!" she hissed at me, "You walk here beside two shems – seen by half the community – by _Elva_! The story will be all over the Alienage come noon. You're not fit to associate with!" She grabbed me by the upper arm – so hard I would have bruises there for weeks - and dragged me away from prying eyes, towards home.

"They bought me a map," I said through a swollen throat, "They were kind to me." Inside, the familiar four walls, with gentle rushlights that created odd little shadows and alluring corners, a vase of tulips on the windowsill, walls shingled to within an inch of their lives and floor so clean you could eat off it, the sense of safety and security enveloped me like a warm blanket. Shianni's face was hard but her eyes were bright and lambent...and I saw to my amazement that she too was struggling against tears.

"Oh, Shianni – please don't worry – Templars aren't like Arl Urien's guards..."

"And I suppose when those two shove you against the wall and raise your skirts with their swords, you'll still be trusting the shiny armour..."

"I trust," I said gravely, "That a Templar has more honour."

"Fool!" she cried, exasperated, "The shems who act holy and mighty are the worst of the bunch. Ask Lia Surana what happened when they came to take her daughter..."

As she spoke Shianni bustled about with the laundry tub – she was reusing my bathwater – and the clothes, which she hung in neat lines from the door to our bunk bed. Shianni was never one to stand still lecturing when there was work to be done – she had perfected the art of doing both together. Me, I always seem to stop working when talking – or composing a new ballad – no matter how Father and Shianni prod me. When Shianni hung an enormous pair of pantaloons out, their purple cloth so swollen about the thighs they looked like two giant grapes, I remembered how I had fun holding them up to my body and strutting about, sticking my nose in the air and ordering everyone around, pretending to be a stuck-up shem lord. I knew better than to try it now though. Instead I snatched a pork scratching from Father's cupboard and chewed hungrily – I had missed breakfast. It gave me inspiration.

"As Father would say," I argued, using what Shianni termed my "silver tongue", "the proof of the pudding is in the eating. I walked back with them and they left me alone."

"For now," Shianni said darkly. She reached out and gave me an exasperated little shake. Her hands were long and hard and competent – her face set in firm unyielding lines, as if the shadow of an old woman hovered over her but had not yet settled. But her amber eyes – their dancing lights half-hidden in lustrous darkness – were soft; softer than the mellow glow of the rushlights. "Rilian, I couldn't bear for you to become a shem's plaything, like...Missa." There was an odd hesitation in her voice, and I had the strangest feeling that Missa had not been who she meant at all, "With nothing but a round-eared child and a few fine dresses to show for the loss of honour."

She was looking a me with a tenderness that would never dare reveal itself in the harsh light of day. Mother's kind of love – a love displayed easily in words and music and silvery laughter – was not Shianni's style at all. But I think I saw for the first time that Shianni's love was all the deeper and stronger for its very undemonstrativeness. And I wondered whether Father – who was a gentle, quiet presence beside Mother's sparkling vivacity – held a similar intensity behind the quality of his silences. These were strange thoughts - disquieting – and I put them away for later. I needed to reassure Shianni.

"Cousin," I promised her, "I will never speak to either man again. I swear it on..." I stopped, and hesitated. Shianni knows I'm normally pretty glib with my assurances, and I wanted to give her a promise she could believe in. But swearing on the people you love is the worst sort of ill-luck. So I swore on the things I valued most:

"...my hair, my music, and my hopes to marry Nelaros."

Shianni looked at me with an odd, searching intensity. Something in my face seemed to convince her. She sniffed – a grudging ascent – and let go. A strange, hollow ache fluttered in my chest as I looked down at my beautiful map, still clutched in my right hand. I looked around our home for something I might use to pin it to the wall. I wished I could frame it – keep it safe from dust and fingerprints - but knew I could never afford to. My eyes lit on the hair pins Shianni had piled neatly into a small wooden bowl on the table. I took two of them, unfurled the map carefully, held it up to the light and raised first one corner then the corner, trying to get it exactly even as I put it up beside my bed. For long moments I stood still, simply admiring. Shianni merely shook her head at me. She went to the table, picked up the rest of the hairpins, and took the brush to my hair. The long red strands crackled and hissed, and I sighed with pleasure. I turned and picked up the piece of cracked glass I keep on my bedside table. It's from a guardhouse window that got smashed during the summer riots. I picked it up days later out of the rubbish and daubed black paint I borrowed from Alarith over one side to make a mirror. I tilted my head this way and that, making tiny pinpoints of light dance about my hair, and saw with satisfaction that it didn't look ginger at all – not in this light anyway. It glimmered like a thousand candleflames.

I began to tell Shianni about my day. Not about Habren – that was too upsetting, and I didn't want to hear "I told you so." And I didn't dare say anything about stores or maps or pumpkin pie. Instead I tried to describe how it felt to stand in the Chantry, listening to the silvery rain of notes that shimmered and sliced through the air, sweet as birdsong and sharp as glass. Shianni sniffed - a more muted sound this time.

"The Chantry," she scoffed, "They make a show of Alms Day but they hoard more wealth than a hundred shem nobles put together. A single chalice could feed an Elven family for months."

I blinked. That thought had not occurred to me. I had thought of it lugging Habren's belongings up stairs and down corridors, passing blue-and-silver tiles, silver candlesticks and gilt chairs, but I had seen the Chantry as a whole – what it meant, not the sum of its parts. I nearly giggled, thinking of how Shianni would have liked the Revered Mother's sermon, but a moment later my mood turned serious. I tried to find words to explain something that felt very important to me.

"It's true," I admitted slowly, "That the chalices – the altar-cloth – each piece of stained glass, would probably feed us for months. But eventually the food would run out. That memory: the music – the ocean of light – the way the Templars moved in unison, like the wheel of constellations...I will have forever."

"Oh, Rilian," Shianni sighed, beginning to braid my hair with very gentle hands, oddly in contrast with her severe tone, "Must you always seek the glory? Isn't it enough to find strength in working well, in duty to family, in the bonds we all share?"

I spun round – put my hands on my cousin's shoulders – looked right into her eyes. We have the same eyes, Shianni and me. I'm taller – a beanpole among Elven women – but somehow Shianni always seems to be at eye level.

"This is the only home I will ever have," I said softly, "But when I'm with Habren – in her spite and her riches and her loneliness – you all seem very distant. Oh, I know the Chantry isn't the Maker any more than the Sunshield is the sun – or your skirts and hair-braids are _you_, but – remember how courteous and ladylike and beautiful we felt when we tried on our mothers' wedding dresses? As though we grew to match them. Sometimes I need the – symbol – of something better, when the reality seems far away."

We looked deep into each others' eyes: questioning, seeking, not quite understanding, but enjoying our differences. Then all at once Shianni gave me a little push to turn me round so she could finish braiding my hair. I was out of the door shortly, gritting my teeth at the prospect of more Habren, clutching a handful of pork scratchings to munch along the way.

As the weeks bled into one another, the daily grind – Habren's repertoire of slaps and pinches and curses; my struggles with a job that was a lot harder than Father had made it sound – began to wear down the memory of that day, breaking it into treasured pieces I took out only occasionally. I forgot all about our conversation – the Chantry – the two Templars – until the Alms Day before Fade's Eve, when the procession brought, among other things, fifty pumpkins. We had the best celebration ever! And the day after it, which was my birthday, when Shianni handed me a plain wrapped package with very bright eyes and an oddly sheepish smile. I unwrapped it eagerly and a shimmering shower of cloth fell into my hands. It felt like liquid fire against my skin and shone scarlet as the goldfinches that seem to have rubies in their foreheads. Shianni had made Mother's cloth into an apron – and all around it, the gold thread formed a delicate filigree of winged vines. It was exactly the design on Nelaros' ring. The vines are etched on many Alienage doors: representing life and the entwining strands of community. The wings are Nelaros' own creation. I trembled in a joy so intense it felt like tears.

"Oh Shianni...it's – so beautiful..."

"Well, I got through the washload early today and had to do something to pass the time. And you need something to cover those stains." It's true – I've barely had the smock for a month, and already it's covered in a multitude of burns and scrapes and tears.

I put the apron on, grabbed Shianni's hands, and pulled her along in a courtly dance, feeling like a creature of mist and flame. Mother was sat at the table, fixing a string to her lute. When this was done she took it up and began to play chords that seemed too mellow for any instrument of mortal make. Father sat by the fire, a mug of ale in hand, his worn face lit up as he watched the three of us. We had the front door open and Soris sat on the step, playing cards with Alarith and Taodor. Soris' cat, One-Eyed Sal, glided like a grey ghost, chasing the rats that prowled among the rubbish left out for collection by the Arl's work crews, on the last day of every month. She dived and leapt and pounced, her mismatched eyes – one blue and one emerald – glaring unnervingly in the autumn twilight. Even when she fell short, she managed to make the mistake seem intentional, never losing her agile dignity. People were burning the leaves that had fallen from the Vhenadahl – the smoke rose in lazy curlicues to join the silhouettes of birds. The leafless branches were stark against the piebald patchwork of rooftops and violet sky. I felt a strange piercing moment of wonder – as though a layer of skin had been removed, allowing me to see more deeply into the heart of my community, these people I loved. The feeling lasted only a moment, but the awareness of being accepted – of belonging – remained with me.

I finished my dance with Shianni, out of breath and laughing, the tiredness of the day fallen away like a discarded cloak.

"I won't mind Habren's snark a bit, now – I'll feel just like a princess in disguise." I held out the apron in both hands and dipped into a curtsey, then straightened up into a pose of royalty I had seen on the Chantry windows.

"Princess Pointy Ears," Shianni snorted.

I stuck my tongue out.

Later, when I asked Father, he told me Shianni had been secretly working on the apron for a month.

_Next __up__: __as __King __Maric __summons __the __Banns __for __the __yearly __Landsmeet__, __Lady __Lorna __puts __Ril__'__s__ "__big __ears__" __to __good __use__. And Adaia encounters a certain Orlesian bard..._


End file.
